He Cheated, So I Drank the Love Potion Myself Chapter 03

He Cheated, So I Drank the Love Potion Myself Chapter 03

I went to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet I had never been able to bring myself to open.

I’d bought it on a visit to a private winery.

I poured a generous glass.

The deep red liquid swirled under the light.

I took a sip.

It was good.

A small smile touched my lips.

Ophelia, you do have good taste.

My gaze returned to the table.

Then I frowned.

Everything was so bland.

It looked delicate, and it tasted restrained.

None of it was what I liked to eat.

For the sake of Reed’s palate, a woman who grew up in Texas had somehow forgotten how to make a single decent, spicy Tex-Mex dish.

I stood up straight.

Right.

Who was I trying to please now?

It was already past eight, but I was suddenly buzzing with energy.

I sliced the beef Wellington into strips, tossed them into a hot pan with onions and bell peppers, and seared them with a heavy hand, sprinkling in a generous handful of fajita seasoning.

I drained the mild mussels and sautéed them with butter, minced garlic, and fiery jalapeños.

That still wasn’t enough. I dug tortilla chips and cheese out of the fridge and baked a huge tray of nachos, smothering them in chili.

Soon, the kitchen was filled with the rich, smoky scent of spice.

I refilled my wineglass and sat back down at the table.

The first bite of spicy beef made my whole body relax.

Then a mussel, slick with garlic and heat.

Then a crisp nacho, followed by a sip of wine.

Now *this* was a meal.

I ate with a vengeance, a light sweat breaking out on my forehead.

The phone beside me suddenly lit up.

A new Instagram notification.

The message was from Reed’s assistant. She was also one of his mistresses.

It read:

“Seriously? You haven’t seen my Story yet?”

Chewing on a strip of beef, I casually tapped into her profile.

In her latest Story, posted ten minutes ago, two hands were clasped together against the backdrop of my favorite Michelin-starred restaurant.

The implication was obvious.

I recognized Reed’s hand at a glance.

I had held it too many times to be mistaken.

Long fingers, distinct knuckles.

A pale band of skin on his ring finger marked where his wedding ring used to be.

Expressionless, I tapped to the next Story.

A new one appeared.

“Oops, my boyfriend saw the Story I posted without thinking. He said he’s punishing me by not letting me sleep tonight. ;P”

I set the phone down.

A familiar sting tightened my chest.

My appetite wavered.

Not because of them, I realized. But because of me.

I put down my fork, looked at the empty air in front of me, and said, very seriously:

“Ophelia. You went to all this trouble to make a meal you actually love.”

“And now you’re going to let someone else’s Instagram Story ruin it?”

“Is that fair to you? To this wine? To your stomach?”

“Finish your dinner. You’re already thin enough. Whoever Reed is holding hands with has nothing to do with you. You can’t let him ruin your dinner.”

“Do you hear me?”

After the pep talk, I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitterness that had risen in my throat.

I speared a large piece of beef, stuffed it into my mouth, and chewed forcefully.

It tasted incredible.

That was more like it.

When I was almost done eating, my phone vibrated again.

This time, it was my mother.

The moment I answered, a barrage of words crashed over me.

“Ophelia Ricci! So what if Reed slept with someone else? Can you stop making a scene?”

“It’s normal for a man like him to have a few women on the side. You should have understood that a long time ago.”

“I don’t care if you have to cry, or beg, or pretend you don’t know. You cannot let a husband like Reed go. Do you hear me?”

“He’s a powerful man now. All you need to do is keep your place as his wife. Why do you spend every day trying to tie him down? What is wrong with you?”

“Reed is an exceptional man. What’s so strange about him having lovers? Just live your life quietly and stop causing trouble.”